


Things Left Unsaid

by PurpleFeatheredChickadee



Series: PS&PS [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Gen, Kinda, Loosely based in the 90s, Modern AU, Torture implied, conversion therapy, related to other fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 23:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10751610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFeatheredChickadee/pseuds/PurpleFeatheredChickadee
Summary: “Hey, my parents sent me here? Said they had already contacted you people.”The man at the gate scoffed. “Ah, another bitter child. Cool. Which one are you?”“Washington?”“Ah. Yeah, rule number one. No last names here. You’re George here.” He paused, scoffing. “Same name as the owner of this camp. Maybe that’ll help you win his favor. Doubt it, but it can’t hurt. Welcome to Acolyte.”A Paint Splatters and Penstrokes story.





	Things Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is a little 'my birthday' gift to you! (published a day late because I'm lazy) The pacing's a little funky, because I wanted it to just be a one shot. (I'm also totally down to write more of these, if you want more background on other characters. Let me know if you're interested in that!) I was listening to Dear Evan Hansen while writing Chapter 20 of PS&PS. If I Could Tell Her came on. This was the result.
> 
> (If you're a new reader, I'd suggest reading at least part of Paint Splatters and Penstrokes before reading this. It will not make sense otherwise.)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: There's blood. Dog attacks, and other bad things. Tread lightly.

“George, I know you’re not happy, but—“

“It’s for your own good, son.”

George opened the car door. “Don’t call me son,” he spat, throwing his favorite red flannel thrown over his simple white T-shirt and slamming the door for good measure. Martha’s parents hated it, said it made him look like a hoodlum. But, as he stared down the long path ahead of him, he realized Martha’s parent’s approval was the last thing on his mind.

This was it. Camp Acolyte. He had heard rumors. His mama said it was group therapy for people with soulmate issues. But the rumors remained. This is where people sent the kids they didn’t want to think about for a while. Kids who caused them too much trouble. And he supposed, he was one of them now.

He mildly heard his mother crying through the closed car windows. He tried not to let it affect him as he walked, instead thinking back to the conversation that led him here.

_“George, you and Martha can’t be.” His father had called to him from the kitchen._

_George, having had been bent over his homework, snapped to attention, walking into the kitchen. “What’cha talkin’ about Pops?”_

_“You and that Martha girl.”_

_Anger prickled at George’s skin. He leaned against the table in false nonchalance. “Which Martha, Pa? It’s a super popular name,” he said, averting eye contact._

_“Don’t you sass me. You know which Martha. She’s betrothed.”_

_“Is not. He’s **courting** her,” George stressed. “ **Courting** Pa! Who still uses that word? He’s too old for her. And we’re **soulmates.”**    _

_“She’s white.” He said plainly._

_“Who cares?!” George screeched. “I **love** her!” _

_“You’re sixteen! You don’t even know what love is!”_

_“I do! And it’s Martha!” George hadn’t noticed his mother come into the room._

_“Sweetheart, what about that other girl. Sally? The one who taught you how to dance! What happened with her?”_

_George scowled. “Fairfax happened. ’Sides Martha’s different.”_

_“And that’s the problem,” retorted his father._

_“Do you hear yourself? You sound like Grandpop!” George growled. “Nah, Nah Georgie, you’re gonna find yourself a nice little black girl because you live in a backwards-ass time where the color of your skin somehow changes who you are as a person,” George lowered his voice in an effort to imitate his grandfather, every word pure acid._

_“Where is your respect?!” George’s father leapt from the kitchen table. “Sit your ass down and **shut your damn mouth**.” He tilted his head. “Actually, go to your room and pack your bags.”_

_“Sweetie, please. It’s for the best.” His mother looked to the ground, before steeling her expression and focusing on her son. “You’re going to Camp Acolyte.”_

George had thought they were bluffing. He even made a show of getting into the car, waiting for his father to turn the car around and head home.

But he didn’t stop at the end of the street.

He didn’t stop at state lines.

And now George was at the gate of the camp for delinquent children, painting himself in the exact light Martha’s parents had. “Fine.” He flagged down the man at the gate, standing tall like his half-brother Lawrence had taught him. “Hey, my parents sent me here? Said they had already contacted you people.” 

The man at the gate scoffed. “Ah, another bitter child. Cool. Which one are you?”

“Washington?”

“Ah. Yeah, rule number one. No last names here. You’re George here.” He paused, scoffing. “Same name as the owner of this camp. Maybe that’ll help you win his favor. Doubt it, but it can’t hurt. Welcome to Acolyte.”

George said nothing.

 

Opening Group was insufferable. ‘Hi, my name is whatever and this is what my parents don’t like about me,’ a constant flow of self-loathing.

“And you?” the man they call King George prompted, making eye contact with George.

George towered over most of the other campers, already almost 6-feet-tall at sixteen. He puffed out his chest. “George. I’m here because my folks decided that I couldn’t be with my soulmate.”

King George looked bored. “And why is that?”

George quirked a brow. “Because they suck?” Quiet laughter rippled through the crowd.

“Silence!” King George called. The children complied, quiet enough to hear a pin drop. King George crossed the circle to where George stood, dipping a sharp finger into the teen’s chest. “That’s _enough._ You’re a strong spirit, but don’t think for a _moment_ that behavior like that will be tolerated here. After all, _strong wills are meant to be broken._ ”

George was proud of himself for keeping tall. King George looked less than thrilled.

A few of the campers called out to him. Tried to call him over, join their group. George refused. After all, what was the point of making friends at that hellhole? Practicality was of the upmost importance. No need making bonds only to break them.

Lunch was disgusting. George didn’t eat.

Smaller group was just as bad, if not worse. The ‘therapist,’ a fierce, tiny woman paced around the circle of teenage boys. “Now, I want all of you to take these markers and tell your arm-marker that you want nothing to do with her,” she gestured to the basket of markers in the middle. The other boys looked upset, but shakily grabbed the markers, touching them to their skin.

“George? C’mon. Don’t fight me on this.”

“No can do, ma’am.”

She put a hand on her hip. “Why is that?”

 “I was taught not to lie.” He was smug, he could hear it in his voice.

She huffed. “Look. You’ve got some fight in you, I like that. But I was told to report any kind of bad behavior to George. You don’t want to be the first name in my report, do you?” There was a silent, yet powerful warning in her gaze.

George turned his head, deciding to behave, if only for the moment. “There’s another reason too.”

“Oh?”

_“George, please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”_

_“Martha, don’t listen to them. We were made for each other!”_

_“I’m sorry. I just…” Martha looked like she wanted to cry. She hastily brushed her long hair from her face, tying it quickly into a bun to try and harden her expression. “We can’t be together. I’m getting married.”_

_George felt his heart shatter. For something that was supposedly hypothetical, it definitely felt real to him. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to piece it back together. Not completely. “Patsy. You don’t **really** wanna marry that guy, do you?” He heard a sharp intake of breath at the nickname, her eyes burning holes in the floor._

_It took her a moment, but she looked up again, shaking her shoulders and holding his gaze. “I do,” she said simply._

_“You really feel nothing for me? Nothing at all?” George prompted, clinging desperately to the final thread of hope._

_There was a shift in Martha’s expression. George saw his answer. “I have to go,” she said. “I’m getting married George. I—“ she reached out and touched his face, standing on her toes, before dropping her arm as though his face was made of hot coals. Maybe it was, if the heat pulsating from his face was any indication. “Don’t write on your arms, okay? There’s… there’s no point to. I won’t answer. Goodbye, George.”_

“She asked me not to. Her parents convinced her to marry someone else,” George looked to the ground, his hand brushing the place where her last message had long since been scrubbed away. It had been written in ballpoint pen, not long after he had gone home from that conversation. _I shouldn’t. But I do. I’m sorry._

“Then you should move on too,” replied the therapist.

“I can’t. Too many things left unsaid. Don’t you get it? She still feels something for me, she’s said so herself. I just… can’t shake that.” _And I don’t want to_ , he finished the sentence silently.

The therapist looked contemplative for a moment, before snapping her fingers and handing him a few pieces of paper instead. “Fine, different exercise then. After this, you’ll have afternoon activity. Go to the labyrinth—it’s the quietest place here—and write what you’d tell her, if you could.  Bring this back to me tomorrow, and we’ll go from there.” She smiled. She genuinely wanted to help him, George realized. When he said nothing, she continued, “This way, you can say everything you need to, even if she never sees it.”

He stayed silent for a few moments before nodding.   

He wasn’t actually planning on doing the exercise, but as the time wore on, he figured it would give him an opportunity to sit alone. These kids were trying so adamantly to speak to him. Couldn’t they see that he didn’t want to be bothered?

Finding the labyrinth was easier said than done, but eventually he stumbled upon it, a large cross hanging from the tree. He sat on a large smooth rock that sat next to the cross, pulling the paper and pen from his pocket.

“If I could tell her,” George said out loud as his pen glided over the paper. He stuttered with the pen in his grip. She had asked him not to talk to her, and he had honored her request. His arms had been bare for quite some time now.

But he still saw her constantly. After all, she was only a year older than him—she was graduating that year. “and getting married,” he finished bitterly, squeezing the pen. “He’s too old for her. He had graduated high school before she was even _born._ ” He didn’t see the way Martha still eagerly shot her hand in the air to answer a question. The way she idly braided her hair in study hall.

He touched the pen to the paper.

The day her friends gave her a flower crown made of blue daisies. How her nails changed color every day. The way she sang down the hallway like nobody else is listening. “But everyone does, because how could you _not.”_   The mood ring she wore on her pinky. George chuckled to himself. She claimed it was a mood ring, but it was always pink.     

His smile turned sad. “Do you really love him Pats? “ he whispered. “Or are you just making your parents happy?” He shook his head. He wanted her to be happy, but she was making a mistake. He was certain of it.

He had to see her again. 

The pen in his grip almost touched his arm, but he stopped it, the tip hovering just above the skin. He hadn’t said it yet, not outright.  The first ‘I love you’ had to be face-to-face. Martha’s parents might see him as a hoodlum, but he was gentleman.

 

Night fell, the camp gone silent as the lights flickered out. His cabinmates’ snores echoed through the small building. The counsellor snorted and rolled over, before settling and breathing evenly. George stood from his bed, shaking his shoulders and bounced quietly on the balls of his feet.

Acolyte was asleep. It was time to move.

George stuffed the blanket back into his bag, the only thing he had taken out in order to keep appearances. Zipping it sounded much too loud to his ears, adrenaline pulsing through him. He went to pick up his bag when he heard it—the footsteps of the Acolytes.

“Shit!” he hissed, climbing back into the bed and curling into a ball, praying that the counsellors outside wouldn’t notice that he didn’t have a blanket.

He heard them walk by, mumbling under their breath about one thing or another. There was a pause in their gait. George didn’t dare look up.

The sound of footsteps continued, fading into silence once more. George swore under his breath, slipping out of bed and slinging his bag over his shoulders. “George?” he heard someone whisper.

George’s blood ran cold. Slowly, he turned to look at the wide eyes of the youngest cabinmate. He never bothered to learn his name. “You’re escaping?”

“Shut _up.”_ George hissed. “You don’t say anything to them, got it? You tell them you don’t know where I went.”

“I won’t know where you went,” the younger boy said blearily. “I don’t want to be here either. Use the fire escape, it’s just a loose panel, there’s no alarm.  I’ll cover you. _Go.”_  

“Thanks.”

“Name’s Benny. Benny Arnold.”

George blinked. “George Washington. You’re a good kid, Benny.”

Benny smiled. “I’ll look you up when I’m out of here.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, opening the fire escape. As Benny stated, it was just a wooden panel that popped open.  “See ya around.”

George snuck through the forest as quickly as possible. With the entire camp dark, finding the direction of the gate was considerably more difficult than George had expected. Nevertheless, he pressed on, shifting his weight to avoid breaking twigs. The large gate glowed in the distance, its white paint shining like a beacon for George to follow.  George smiled. He could do this.

A rumble of noise could be heard from the direction of the cabins, George instinctually turning toward the sound. Someone must have noticed he was missing. Benny was probably distracting them now. As much as he didn’t want ties in that place, he had to admit that having an ally makes it easier. He continued to sneak through the forest, his pace quickened slightly. He didn’t have to be as careful about noise, he was far enough away from the cabin area.

An air horn ripped through the camp. Suddenly, the lights were back on. “Shit. Shit Shit Shit Shit _Shit!”_ George took off running. What had Benny said to them?! He could hear dogs in the distance, coming closer with the second. He sprinted out of the trees, making a mad dash for the gate. All he had to do was make it through. Dogs can’t climb fences. Dogs can’t climb fences. All he had to do was outrun the dogs. The fence was so close.

Ten feet away.

Five.

George took a flying leap, latching onto the fence and starting to climb. He was almost there. Almost free. He could hitchhike home and see Martha. Maybe even convince her to run away with him before she got married. Yeah. He could do this.

There was a spark of pain in his ankle, followed quickly by a sharp tug, knocking him off balance. He fruitlessly tried to kick at the creatures at his feet, but they would not get away. Another dog latched on, then another. Soon enough, five German Shepherds had latched onto George’s legs, and with one final, sharp tug, he was torn from the fence.

He covered his face with his arms, the dogs tearing at his clothing. There was a sharp bite as teeth sunk into his arm. He screamed.

A command was called out, the dogs backing off of the teen immediately. They sat up, tails wagging. King George approached, clicking his tongue.

“I knew you couldn’t be trusted. We have special places for kids like you here. You’re going to wish you behaved.” King George delivered a sharp kick into George’s stomach.

George shouted in pain, curling around himself to try to keep King George from kicking him again. “What did you do to Benny?”

“Benny?” King George tilted his head. “Oh, little Benedict? We didn’t have to do anything. We asked and he gave you up.”

“No way.” George went to stand and cried out in pain again. Blood soaked through the cuff of his jeans.

“Wow. Looks like the dogs did quite a number on that thing. We’ll get that wrapped up. Can’t have you bleeding out.” He laughed, calling out for the camp nurse to approach.

The nurse worked quickly, meticulously sterilizing and wrapping the wounds. She looked up at George’s face, her eyes filled with tears. She reminded George of the therapist in face. This woman’s lips were fuller, and she had a small mole on her cheekbone, differentiating her from the woman he had met earlier. She whispered so quietly George wasn’t entirely sure he had heard her correctly. “My sister _warned you._ Why weren’t you more careful?”

“That’s enough. Let’s go George.”

“Go where?”

“I _told you_. We have places here for people like you. Get up.”

“George, he really shouldn’t be walking on it,” the nurse chirped.

He shrugged. “He shouldn’t have tried to escape either. You’re dismissed.” The nurse looked like she was going to object, “Why are you still here?”

She gave one more look to George, _I’m sorry,_ she mouthed, before disappearing.

“On your feet.”

George tried to stand again. His leg buckled, pain shooting up his leg. “I don’t think I can.”

King George shrugged, looking at the teen’s feet. “Looks like the other one is fine. Start hopping.”

“Excuse me?”

King George grabbed his arm, yanking him up. George hissed as the man’s nails dug into his skin. Once he had his balance, King George shoved him, effectively knocking him to the ground again. “ _Up_ ,” he commanded again.

“Are you _serious_?!  F—“ George gripped at his ankle again. “You think you’re going to get away with this?! The first kid to get out is going to report you! You’re going to go to prison!”

“Ooh ho, is that right?” He leaned down, grabbing George’s collar and yanking him to his feet again. “You really think you’re the _first_ kid who tried to escape? Dozens of kids have come before you. You won’t be reporting us either. Besides, you’re just a rebellious kid. We’re an entire organization. Who are they going to believe?”

“They’ll believe me when they see the _wounds._ You really think they’re going to let you let loose dogs on children?”

“You think we’re going to let you leave before those heal? Come on George, I thought you were smarter than that. Walk.”

“You mean ‘hop’?” George spat.

“Just move.” After what felt like an eternity. He was shoved into one of the buildings. The lights had gone out at some point during his trek, as though hopping through the forest wasn’t difficult enough. “Down the stairs.”

“Are you serious.”

“ _Down._ ”

George hobbled down the stairs. Escape was pointless. His ankle was getting him nowhere fast, and they were only going to send the dogs again if he tried. The walls inside were white. Pristine, too clean. The pungent smell of bleach hit his nostrils, so strong it made him woozy. There was a mattress, bare, on a wire frame in the back corner. Eager to get weight off his ankle, George sat himself on the bed, kicking his foot up in order to examine the wound. The nurse had done well, the bandage held strong, even with all the hopping he had done.

King George flicked the lights on; George immediately covered his eyes. It was so bright, the lights reflecting off the too-white walls, effectively blinding him.

“Too bright?” he asked mockingly.

“Little bit,” He retorted. King George wasn’t going to break him. _Acolyte_ wasn’t going to break him.

George vaguely heard a crackle of electricity.

He had to see Martha.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes!  
> -Washington's father actually died when he was 11. I took some liberties.  
> -Washington's personality is very similar to Alexander's, but not exact. The "I was just like you when I was younger" line is literally the only reason for it. That, and he's 16.  
> -Yes, George was in fact infatuated with the woman to be Sally Fairfax. She was the one to teach 16yo George how to dance the minuet.  
> -Benedict Arnold was 9 years younger than Washington (born in 1741 while Washington was 1732) making him 7 in this, one of Acolyte's youngest campers.  
> -Mood rings and flannel. Ah, the 90s. 
> 
>  
> 
> I think that's it. Of course, I have George and Martha's whole back story. And the universe built up. Feel free to pop into Tumblr to ask me about PSPS universe stuff. Or anything else.  
> [here!](http://sewing-and-showtunes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> As always, Comments/Kudos are greatly appreciated!! <3


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